


there's nothing that I wouldn't do (it's not the way I planned it)

by skatingsplits



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Bisexual Stevie Budd, F/F, bisexual alexis rose, internalised biphobia, my take on the morning after the wedding, oblivious stevie budd, references to drunk sex, we all know what went down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Stevie Budd is no stranger to the legendary hangover. The one after her eighteenth birthday party where she devoured forty-six hash browns in under five minutes and then immediately passed out in the Elmdale McDonalds’ parking lot was pretty notable, as was that time in Vancouver where she woke up floating in a still-warm bathtub in a swimming costume that wasn’t hers. And then there was the infamous Memorial Day tailgate- although, does it actually count as a hangover if you have to get your stomach pumped? She isn’t sure but one thing is for certain; in the story of a life liberally sprinkled with agonising headaches and the unslakeable desire to simultaneously have her stomach surgically removed and ingest a dozen bakeries’ worth of carbohydrates, the morning after David and Patrick’s wedding is definitely going to deserve its own chapter.
Relationships: Stevie Budd/Alexis Rose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	there's nothing that I wouldn't do (it's not the way I planned it)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I am sure that this has already been done to death; I deliberately haven't read any post-finale Stevie/Alexis fics yet because I didn't want to accidentally sponge anything up so I'm very excited to work my way through them!  
> 2\. Title from Ms. Britney Spears' Baby One More Time because I have impeccable taste.

Stevie Budd is no stranger to the legendary hangover. The one after her eighteenth birthday party where she devoured forty-six hash browns in under five minutes and then immediately passed out in the Elmdale McDonalds’ parking lot was pretty notable, as was that time in Vancouver where she woke up floating in a still-warm bathtub in a swimming costume that wasn’t hers. And then there was the infamous Memorial Day tailgate- although, does it actually count as a hangover if you have to get your stomach pumped? She isn’t sure but one thing is for certain; in the story of a life liberally sprinkled with agonising headaches and the unslakeable desire to simultaneously have her stomach surgically removed and ingest a dozen bakeries’ worth of carbohydrates, the morning after David and Patrick’s wedding is definitely going to deserve its own chapter. 

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d managed to get even a minute of sleep before they’d waved the elder Roses off to their shiny new life in California. Maybe then every movement she makes wouldn’t feel like she’s swimming through a sticky pool of treacle. No, not just treacle. Treacle with knives. Armed treacle, treacle that would decide you’d given it a dirty look and jump you the minute you got out of the bar, aggressive treacle- okay, the word treacle is starting to sound too weird and she hasn’t managed to move an inch. She’s just standing, staring at the bedsheets in her arms and paying less than no attention to the well-meaning buzz of Alexis’s chatter. 

If Stevie wasn’t already convinced that life isn’t fair, Alexis’s appearance this morning would have been the final nail in the coffin. Stevie knows for a fact that Alexis had at least as much to drink as she did (she has vague memories of them challenging each other to see who could finish a pitcher of a concoction Jocelyn had called “Irish Trash Can” first) but, no surprise, the only signs of it are the slight smudgings of expensive mascara under her eyes. Stevie wouldn’t have guessed that Alexis even knew how to change bed linen but here she is, happily stripping the undersheet off the bed in Room 2 and talking incessantly about... something. Nothing, probably. Over the last few years, Stevie’s learned that although Alexis talks a lot, the words coming out of her mouth usually aren’t actually about anything. And this morning, Stevie can’t spare the extra energy it would take to pretend to listen. It’s kind of nice, actually; like a well-meaning bee, just pleasantly buzzing away in the background. A really pretty bee, who’d probably never sting anyone if she could just angrily flip her hair at them instead. Alexis rarely seems to need a second participant in conversations anyway. Until, that is, a mention of her own name makes Stevie’s attention span hazily swim up through the stabby-molasses thickness of her headache and tune back in. 

“Huh?” Eloquent as always, Stevie, eloquent as always. 

“Stevie, are you listening?” The honest answer is no, not even a little bit, but Alexis’s downturned mouth makes Stevie think that that probably wouldn’t be very well-received. 

“Sorry, I was-” she begins blearily, before she realises that she’s way too out of it to come up with an excuse. It’s okay, though, because now Alexis isn’t really listening. She rolls her eyes and pushes on, grabbing a pillowcase out of Stevie’s hand. 

“I was just _saying_ that I want you to know that wasn’t my best work,” Alexis says, as though Stevie should know exactly what she means. 

“What?” 

Alexis’s eye-roll this time is dramatic enough to do some serious optical nerve damage. Probably. 

“You know... last night.” The gesture Alexis makes would probably be obscene if Stevie actually knew what it meant. “There was just so much going on, with David getting married and my parents leaving, I think I was kind of in my head? Like, I can do better. Like, I think Ashley Tisdale still has a scar from where I made her bite her lip really hard when we were hidden in the cupboard at Jane Fonda’s seventy-fifth birthday party. You know?” 

Stevie doesn’t know. But, in fairness, Stevie tends to find that while she usually understands all the individual words that come out of Alexis’s mouth, it’s pretty rare that she actually knows what the words mean when it’s Alexis that’s saying them. And normally that doesn’t matter because normally, Alexis is way too busy loving the sound of her own voice to require any answer except a half-hearted nod and some vaguely affirmative murmurs, but the way she’s staring at Stevie right now makes it clear that a nod isn’t going to cut it. 

“Honestly, Alexis, I have no idea what you’re talking about and my head is killing me-” 

“Ugh, if you don’t wanna talk about it, you can just say,” Alexis interrupts, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she’s standing under a waterfall in a Pantene commercial instead of cleaning up a motel room where the most recent occupants don’t seem to have been especially well-acquainted with the concept of personal hygiene. “I wasn’t, like, hinting at a repeat performance. I was just letting you know, in case you were going to get all Stevie-ish and judgey about it, that I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders after that disgusting blue curaçao and diet coke thing Ronnie kept trying to make us drink. I do actually know what I’m doing down there.” 

She makes another weird movement with her hands that Stevie doesn’t think she’d be able to decipher even if she was fully fluent in Alexis-speak- as it is, Stevie is more confused than ever. Down _where_?

“You’re really gonna have to be more specific if you want me to understand a single word you’re saying. What did you do?” 

She’s expecting an even more long-winded answer than even Alexis usually provides, probably complete with overdramatic hand-flapping and lots of lingustic fillers. But, for maybe the first time since Stevie’s known her, Alexis doesn’t say anything. She just smiles, a confident, self-assured smile. And then, like a fuzzy TV screen briefly cutting back in, Stevie remembers. Well, she sort of remembers. She has a flash of Alexis’s soft hair tickling her collarbone as glossy pink lips made their sticky way across her jaw, seeing that same smile as Alexis slid her arms around Stevie’s waist. A flash of perfectly manicured hands tugging at her white shirt as they stumbled clumsily through a motel room door, barely stopping to shut it behind them before a long white dress was tossed into a heap on the floor. A flash of drunken laughter as sharp teeth nipped at her inner thigh, her back arching off the motel bed as- oh, _Jesus._ Stevie doesn’t know how she’s still standing up; never mind treacle, now her head feels like it’s made of a swarm of vengeful fire ants and Alexis is still smiling that suddenly unbearable smile. 

“Shit, shit, Jesus fucking Christ!” She doesn’t know why her brain decided to make her sink down to the floor but she’s there, folded over on her knees with her head in her hands. This is so fucked up. Yeah, it’s not like she hasn’t had a lot of practise with really stupid drunken hook-ups but not really stupid drunken hook-ups with _other women._ And definitely not other women who happened to be her best friend’s sister. Or, for that matter, her business partner’s daughter. Or the woman she’s spent the last three years trying not to hang around with solo because it made it so much harder to ignore the entirely unwelcome twanging in her chest whenever that woman smiled. Or women who were just as confusingly, distractingly Alexis-y as Alexis fucking Rose. 

If she tries really hard, is she gonna be able to crawl over the trashcan before she throws up? 

“Okay, slight overreaction! I’m not _diseased,_ Stevie!” Alexis crouches down beside her and she’s pouting, there’s no other way to describe it. It’s kind of annoying but also really, really hard to stop looking at and... _fuck_. 

“No, it’s just... I can’t believe I did that. I completely forgot and I'm not...” it's Stevie's turn to wave her arms around like an idiot. “I’m not that way inclined. No offence.” 

Alexis looks the exact opposite of offended. She's smirking as widely and as smugly as... a really smug and wide thing, and it makes Stevie feel really fucking weird. Like her stomach hurts, and not just in a hungover way. She knows for a fact that it isn’t a hungover way because she feels like this around Alexis and her really soft hair even when depressingly, stone cold sober but this is so, so much worse. 

“Ohhhkaaay...” Alexis draws the word out for at least three times as long as she needs to. “Of course you’re not.” 

“What? I’m not, I’m... I’m not _gay,_ Alexis. I just had a series of unfortunate encounters with a bottle of Roland’s corn whiskey. I could have been in bed with your _dad_ and I wouldn’t have known the difference ,” she lies. Tiny little strands of memory keep floating back to her and although she still doesn’t have a full picture of everything that happened between them, Stevie knows that there’s no way on earth that she could ever have mistaken Alexis for _anybody_ else. Nobody could. 

“I mean, first of all, never mention my _dad_ when you’re talking about having sex with me. And second of all...” Alexis pauses, flinging her hair over one shoulder in a little huffing motion. “Why are you making such a big deal about this?” 

“I’m not, I just... I like men, okay?” Yeah, that sounds pathetic even to her. 

“Okay, I know that even you know that it’s not necessarily, like, a fixed menu situation.” Alexis rolls her Disney princess eyes for what seems like the millionth time, looking most definitely huffy now. “Like, if I went out for Pad Thai with Chiwetel Eijofor on a Monday, that wouldn’t stop me having veggie ramen with Dianna Agron on a Tuesday, you know?” 

No, Stevie doesn’t know. Until last night- really, until less than three minutes ago- she'd been trying really, really hard to not know. 

“Look, if I’d known you were gonna freak out about it, I wouldn’t have brought it up.” Stevie still isn’t used to Alexis sounding sincere. It’s a little unsettling, genuine words of comfort coming out a mouth that she’d gotten so used to associating with hot tips about lip liner maintenance and way too much information about Dakota Fanning’s birth chart. She can’t even begin to craft a response and Alexis makes that exasperated sound she always makes when the room’s been quiet for more than three seconds. “Ugh, Stevie! Tell me I haven’t ruined your life or something!” 

“Yeah,” she manages, finally. “Totally ruined it. You know how it is, big city girl blows into small town and seduces all the local girls into a life of crime and cunnilingus. They’re probably gonna want to make a Lifetime movie about it. The Big Bad Beverly Hills Bisexual.” 

Alexis exhales. To Stevie’s hungover ears, the sound is practically deafening and when she looks at Alexis’s face, she isn’t expecting to see a smile. But Alexis is smiling; a real smile, not the extra dazzling American Idol smile she can turn on at the drop of a hat, and she’s lacking any performative attempts at grace as she slumps down next to Stevie on the floor, bedsheets long since abandoned. 

“Okay, now I know what I’m calling my memoirs. And when I sell the movie rights, you can have one percent of the profits.” 

“Oh, I won’t be settling for anything less than ten,” she says with a slightly watery smile, and Alexis looks so relieved that Stevie starts to feel a little guilty for having such a freak out. It isn’t Alexis’s fault that Stevie’s been trying so hard to ignore how pretty her hair is for at least four years and is now trying really really hard to not let herself be entirely overwhelmed by the thought of how that hair felt against her thighs. 

“Damn, Stevie, I forgot you were a blazer-wearing business woman now,” Alexis nudges her side with a surprisingly sharp elbow and they’re both laughing and maybe Stevie is about six seconds away from crying. “I mean it though,” Alexis adds quietly. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable, I didn’t even think about you not remembering. I guess you went a little harder on Gwen's dandelion and rum punch than I did. If you want, we can just... both not remember?” 

“No,” Stevie says, way too quickly. “No. I mean, it’s not a big deal, right? We’re just two mature adult women who did some mature, adult stuff. People do it all the time. Mature people.” 

“Mmm, very mature,” Alexis assures her with wide eyes. “And, like, I’m leaving today anyway soooo it’s not like you have to worry about me getting my big bad Beverly Hills bi claws into you again, right?” 

“Right.” Oh. Somehow, she’d actually managed to forget that by the time her hangover wears off, Alexis will have long since been whisked away to the airport, leaving behind nothing more than a faint trace of that weirdly addictive flowery perfume on her pillow and a hollow pit at the bottom of Stevie’s stomach. 

“But like, maybe it would be okay if I texted you? I mean, I know we have that wedding planning group chat, and the one from Cabaret that Twy still sends her Real Housewives recap texts to, but maybe I could text just you? You know, like... friends.” 

“Mature friends,” Stevie agrees and Alexis nods so earnestly that Stevie nearly starts to tear up again. 

Friends. Friends who text. Friends who maybe put kisses on the ends of their sentences. Friends who might, occasionally, want to show each other what their insanely soft mermaid hair looks like when they've just had phone sex but are definitely still just friends. 

Yeah, friends doesn’t seem so scary. Stevie thinks she can deal with friends. 


End file.
